


Weakness

by AnimationNut



Series: Platonic Soulmate AU [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Donut is suffering, Families of Choice, Gen, Harassment, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Insecurity, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Team as Family, Violence, Wash goes feral near the end, and that's causing his soulmates to suffer, don't mess with his soulmates, platonic fluff, platonic soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimationNut/pseuds/AnimationNut
Summary: Donut finds himself the target of a group of New Republic soldiers, who take delight in tormenting him. Donut tries to ignore them, but their harassment dregs up horrible memories from his high school years, and he fears that his inability to stand up for himself then and now makes him weak. Their words strike him deep and inflate his insecurities, leaving him to believe that his soulmates will think less of him if they find out he's being bullied.He is very wrong.
Relationships: Franklin Delano Donut & Agent Washington & Sarge
Series: Platonic Soulmate AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320512
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Red vs. Blue.
> 
> Just an extra heads up that this chapter contains homophobic language and behavior.

The graffiti was back.

Donut grimaced as he stashed his armour into his locker, trying to avoid staring at the angry red letters that were painted across the back of the locker door. _Homo_ glared at him, sneered at him, mocked him, and Donut secured his towel tighter around his waist before snapping his locker shut.

He took a slow, deep breath. _It’s just a word,_ he thought. _Just a stupid, ignorant word. They don’t hold any power._

Due to the obscenely early hour, the showers were empty. He was the only one inside the white-tiled space, which was what he had been counting on. There were two points in the day in which the shower stalls were bare; super early in the morning or late at night. The rest of his soulmates showered at night. He used to shower at night, too. But then the graffiti started appearing in his locker and he worried that someone might catch a glimpse of it.

So he switched to the morning, where he could keep the slander hidden. He wasn’t sure how his soulmates would react, but it wasn’t something they needed to get worked up about so he kept it to himself.

He didn’t bother to scrub the paint away this time. The band of New Republic soldiers that had taken it upon themselves to harass him would just do it again. He tried securing his locker with a keypad lock a few days ago, but it didn’t last long. He found it broken on the floor the next morning.

_Just like high school._

His chest tightened and Donut screwed his eyes shut. “Don’t think about it,” he ordered himself. “You’re not in high school. You’re in the middle of a bloody war.”

Which, frankly, was preferable to his teenage years.

He finished washing up and dried himself off with his towel. He tossed it into the laundry bin by the door and put his armour back on. With his soulmarks completely covered, which was one of Wash’s main rules in these wartimes, he ventured into the main corridor.

“Hey, Tinkerbell. Did you like our paintjob?”

Donut’s heart stuttered in his chest. They hadn’t waited for him outside the shower before. “My name is Donut,” he said calmly.

Ashford snickered. “Yeah, we know. That’s not much better.”

“I mean, if you’d prefer us calling you Puff, we definitely can,” added Thompson with a laugh. “You know, like pastry puff. It’s in the same family as a donut.”

“Pastries are baked goods which contains items made from flour and fat pastes. Donuts are deep-fried pieces of dough or batter, commonly of a toroidal,” said Donut with a sniff. “Not all baked goods fall under the same umbrella.”

“Riiiiiiight,” drawled Craver. “Tinkerbell.”

Donut pursed his lips together. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Thank Lord for that,” said Thompson with a sneer. “Or else I’d have to break your face in. Don’t even think about swinging in my direction, Puff.”

“I—”

“Donut?”

The three New Republic soldiers immediately stepped back as Washington appeared around the corner. He paused next to Donut and surveyed the others appraisingly. “Soldiers.”

“Agent Washington,” they chorused, all disrespect gone from their voices.

“You lot are up early.”

“Oh, you know what they say,” said Ashford cheerfully. “The early bird catches the worm.”

Craver let out a snort, which he quickly turned into a false sneezing fit. “We better get going,” said Thompson, pushing Craver’s shoulder to spur him down the corridor. “See you later, Agent Washington. Donut.”

“ _Private_ Donut,” said Wash sharply.

“Right, right, of course. My apologies. Private Donut.”

They departed and Donut felt his cheeks heat up, knowing they would be laughing at him as soon as they were out of sight. Washington studied Donut and the pink-suited soldier could feel his concern flowing through their soul-link.

“Everything okay?” asked Wash.

“Everything is just peachy,” said Donut, managing to keep his voice bright.

“You’ve been feeling down the past couple of days.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Donut gave a feeble shrug. “It’s the war, I guess.”

He couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t tell him he was being _bullied_ , and hadn’t done anything about it. Wash would think it was pathetic.

Wash frowned. It was rare for Donut to lose his cheery disposition, but they _were_ in the midst of a bloody battle for not only their lives but the fate of the whole planet. He clapped Donut’s shoulder and gave a squeeze.

“I know it’s been a bit rough,” he said softly. “Do you want to talk?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” said Donut quickly. “Really.”

“All right. Since you’re up, do you want to come for a jog with Carolina and I?”

“No thanks,” said Donut. “I think I’m just going to rest before breakfast.”

“See you in a bit, then.” Wash paused before saying, “And seriously, Donut, if you need to talk, you know we’re here for you.”

“I know. Thanks, Wash,” said Donut sincerely.

Wash nodded and continued on down the corridor. Donut started for the barracks, warily keeping an eye out for Thompson and his cohorts.

…

Donut managed to catch a couple more hours of sleep before breakfast. He, Sarge, Simmons and Grif stood in line in the mess hall, waiting for their rations to be doled onto their trays. “Why do we have to do this so freaking early?” asked Grif in irritation.

“Grif, every morning, you complain about the same crap,” snapped Simmons. “We eat this early because it’s _breakfast_ and most people, people who aren’t lazy sacks of skin, eat breakfast before noon.”

“It’s not my fault I’m ahead of the times,” said Grif. “Eating your first meal of the day at noon is superior.”

“You’ve never been ahead or superior at anything in your life,” said Sarge with a snort.

“You always skip out on training to sleep, so what does it matter?” piped up Donut.

“He’s not doing that anymore,” said Simmons with a snicker. “Not since the soldiers beat the crap out of him.”

“Stupid Washington,” growled Grif.

They reached the front of the line and held out their trays. After he received a bowl of cornflakes, a packaged bran muffin and a protein shake, Donut began to move out of the queue. He did not notice the foot that abruptly stuck out and he fell to the floor with a startled yelp.

His tray flew from his hands and the bowl shattered against the concrete, milk and mushy bits of cereal spraying in all directions. He heard a very familiar snickering coming from behind him and he refused to look over his shoulder as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Oh, great job, Donut,” said Grif, not hearing the quiet, mocking laughter coming from the three New Republic soldiers. “You’re wasting our rations.”

“You’re not one to talk, Grif,” said Simmons flatly, extending a hand towards Donut, who accepted it.

“I’d expect that kind of oafish display from Grif. Don’t go falling to his level, Donut,” warned Sarge. “There’s no redeeming yourself after that.”

“Sorry,” muttered Donut. “Clumsy me. I’m gonna go get something so I can clean this up.”

He didn’t wait for the others to respond as he speed-walked out of the mess hall. Embarrassment spiked through him as he located the nearest supply closet. He dug out a rag, a broom and a dustpan, his already dampened spirits completely plummeting.

_Let it roll off your shoulders, Franklin._

But his shoulders remained tight with agitation. He tried his deep breathing techniques as he went back to the mess hall, but they kept stuttering in his throat. Unwanted memories surfaced, sharp with clarity and detail, despite his best efforts to forget.

_He was sixteen. With his lunch tray in hand, he was crossing the cafeteria, looking for an empty table. No one liked it when he tried sitting with them. So he learned to just sit by himself._

_A foot shot out and he stumbled over it. His meatloaf rolled across the linoleum floor and his milk container exploded. The quarterback of the football team laughed, an ugly, foghorn-like sound. “You made a mess, Queenie. Clean it up.”_

_Donut squeaked as he was lifted up by the back of his shirt and dropped over the spilled liquid. The cafeteria burst into laughter. Donut struggled to stand but he was pushed back down, the foot landing heavy on his back. No one bothered to help him._

Donut’s vision was blurred as he stepped through the mess hall doors. He blinked rapidly and when it cleared it was to see Wash, Tucker, Caboose and Carolina waiting for their food. “Smooth move, Delano,” crowed Tucker.

“Knock it off,” said Carolina firmly, kicking Tucker’s ankle.

Donut’s embarrassment prickled through them. “Sorry,” said Tucker sheepishly. “I was just messing with you.”

“I know,” said Donut, trying to keep his voice light. “Just a case of slippery fingers.”

“I have accidents all the time,” said Caboose seriously.

“Your accidents are usually maiming or killing people. I guess in one case, there really is nothing to be ashamed of,” said Tucker with a snicker.

“Oh, shut up, Tucker,” said Church in annoyance, flickering above Carolina’s shoulder. “Yo, Donut, you want some help with that? Tucker would love to give you a hand.”

“What?” asked Tucker blankly.

“It’s fine. I got it,” muttered Donut.

As he swept up the ceramic pieces, his eyes flicked upwards to see Ashford, Craver and Thompson looking at him, their bodies shaking with supressed laughter.

_Ignore it. Ignore it._

He tossed out his trash and walked out of the mess hall without another word. “Come on, look at the bright side,” he whispered to himself. “At least you’re not a human mop this time.”

He returned the cleaning supplies and headed for the barracks. His protein shake and muffin had survived the impact but he was no longer hungry. He dropped them onto Grif’s tray when he entered their shared bunk and sat on the edge of Sarge’s bed.

“Thanks, dude,” said Grif greedily, promptly opening the shake and draining it.

“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Simmons.

“Not really,” answered Donut. His stomach twisted and turned and he felt sick.

“What are you freaking out for?” asked Grif through a mouthful of muffin. “So you face-planted in the middle of the mess hall. Big whoop.”

His emotions were still swirling and he struggled to keep them in check. “It’s just embarrassing, that’s all.”

_Embarrassing that these things are still happening to me. Embarrassing that I still can’t stand up for myself._

“Trust me, man, I have done worse,” said Simmons feelingly.

**“He wears his boxers in the shower because he’s too shy to be fully naked. Tripping in front of a crowd is nothing.”**

Simmons glared at Lopez, who was observing them from the corner. “I don’t know what you said but I know I’m not going to like it.”

“And Grif just existing is the greatest embarrassment of all,” spoke Sarge.

“Your face is an embarrassment,” shot back Grif.

“Ooh, real clever, numbnuts.”

Though now in the privacy of his own bunk, Donut kept his helmet on. The visor covering his face meant he didn’t have to force a smile and pretend nothing was wrong.

…

Donut hoped that if he didn’t give a reaction, Ashford, Craver and Thompson would get bored and leave him alone. He endured their whispered taunts when he encountered them in the corridors or when they sidled up beside him during laps in training. He tried desperately to brush away their barbed words, but they stuck to him, inflated his insecurities which he thought he had long since shed.

He didn’t know why they had decided to target him. Their very first interaction consisted of Thompson calling him a fruit while Ashford and Craver laughed. Donut wished he could say he didn’t know what he had done to gain their hate. But he did know—he was different, he wasn’t a traditional man, and somehow, they had figured it out.

With despondency weighing him down, Donut stepped out of the shower and opened his locker. He found his armour covered in glitter. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, panic knotting in his gut, but the three were nowhere in sight. His hands trembled as he put on his armour, his blue eyes staring numbly at the most recent slur painted at the back of his locker— _fairy_.

He trailed out of the locker room and his stomach dipped at finding Craver, Ashford and Thompson waiting for him. “Heeeey, Tinkerbell,” crowed Thompson. “I know how much you like makeovers, so we thought we’d give you one.”

Makeovers—it was the topic of a conversation he had with Jensen at the beginning of the week. Discussing contouring techniques and nail care. They had overheard. Donut realized that must have been the moment they decided he was deserving of their vitriol.

“How did you find out I showered at this time to begin with?” asked Donut tightly.

Ashford laughed. “You think we wouldn’t notice that the Reds and Blues don’t shower at the prime times? People asked around. Found out you guys shower at weird hours. Someone asked Kimball why and she told us to leave you alone.”

“Then you should do that,” said Donut. “Leave me alone.”

Thompson cocked his head to the side. “I’m sorry. Are you trying to tell me what to do?”

“Yes.”

“Looks like he has some balls after all,” sneered Craver.

Thompson moved a few steps forwards, so he was an inch away from Donut. “I’m not listening to some little puff who drains the masculinity from a room the second he walks into it.”

Donut clenched his fingers. “If you don’t back off, I’m going to tell Kimball,” he said bravely.

The fist cracked out, catching him right in the middle of his visor. His head rattled around the confines of his helmet and the force sent him sprawling. He felt something warm and wet trickle from his cheek and Thompson loomed over him.

“Go right ahead. I dare you. I’d love to watch Agent Washington deprecate you for being so utterly useless to defend yourself. And I’m sure Kimball will appreciate you bothering her about trivial matters that you have no evidence for.”

“Man up, Tinkerbell,” said Craver with a cackle.

“What a disgrace,” said Ashford with a scoff. “I can’t believe they let you enlist in the army to begin with. They must have been desperate.”

They walked away, leaving Donut alone in the corridor. He slowly sat up, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

_He was walking home when they ambushed him. Five football players swarmed him, taking his backpack and pushing him to the ground. They kicked and punched him and Donut covered his head with his arms, yelling for help. But no one came and eventually they walked away, spitting on him as they left. Bruised and bloody, Donut pulled himself up from the sidewalk with shaking limbs._

No, his harassers wouldn’t leave him alone. The football players hadn’t and they were cut from the same cloth. It didn’t matter if he reacted or not. They just wanted to hurt him.

He took a shuddering breath and walked back to his bunk. The door slid open and Donut stepped into the dark room. Simmons, Grif and Sarge were still in the depths of slumber. His emotional barrier was firmly in place, preventing them from experiencing his distress. Donut peeled off his helmet and gingerly pressed his fingers against his cheek. Ruby red stained the pink metal.

**“What happened?”**

Donut nearly jumped straight out of his armour. “Lopez,” he whispered. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

Lopez moved closer, studying the injury. **“What happened?”** he repeated.

“Oh, nothing,” said Donut, gathering the context of what the robot was asking. “Just a little accident. I’m, uh, going to clean it.”

He retreated out of the bunk, his heart pounding in his chest. He went to the nearest bathroom and splashed water on his face, washing the blood from his skin and down the drain. He stared at his expression in the mirror, at his sunken eyes and miserable frown.

He couldn’t let the others see him like this. He couldn’t let them know how useless he was.

There was mottled bruising on the side of his face, and he had forgotten about his glitter-covered armour. He flinched. _I hope Lopez didn’t see that._

He spent the next few hours scrubbing the glitter off. But glitter was notorious for being a wretch to remove and several flecks remained by breakfast time. Donut heaved a sigh and reluctantly put his armour back on. He shuffled to the mess hall, his soulmates already there.

“Dude, seriously, why do you get up so early to shower?” asked Grif in bafflement.

“I prefer it.”

“But you’re all alone,” said Caboose in confusion. “I know! I can come keep you company!”

“No!” said Donut quickly. “No, really, don’t trouble yourself. I like being alone.”

That was a blatant lie and their heads turned in his direction. “You’ve been off lately,” said Wash lowly. “Quiet and…really unlike you. Are you still feeling down?”

“I’m fine,” insisted Donut.

“Then why have you been blocking you-know-what for the past few days?” asked Carolina suspiciously.

“I just need some time,” muttered Donut.

“It’s been, like, a week,” said Tucker flatly. “It’s getting really annoying. Are you going to drop it soon or what?”

Donut was saved from answering by Carolina. “What the hell is this?” she asked, reaching over and scratching at a piece of glitter.

“You did not cover your armour in glitter,” said Grif, aghast.

“I was just playing around,” said Donut, feeling his nerves heighten.

“Where did you get glitter?” asked Simmons in disbelief.

“I have my sources.”

“I want glitter,” said Caboose eagerly. “Can your sources get me glitter?”

“Do _not_ give him glitter,” snapped Tucker. “If I wake up covered in sparkly stuff, I will kill you.”

Caboose pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Seriously, man,” spoke Church. “Whatever’s going on…just talk about it soon, all right?”

“Sure,” said Donut, knowing there was no way to make them believe he was fine when he refused to let his barrier down. “Of course.”

_I can’t talk about it. I can’t. They’ll think I’m a loser. A wimp._

They returned to their respective bunks with their breakfast trays. Donut braced himself for a reaction as he pulled off his helmet. Sure enough, Simmons gaped at him. “What happened to you?”

“Accident in the shower. Slipped and fell.”

“That must have been one fall,” said Grif with a whistle. “Half of your face is like, blue.”

 **“What was with the glitter?”** asked Lopez.

There were few Spanish words Donut managed to memorize—glitter happened to be one of them. He couldn’t stop the flush crawling up his neck. “I just thought I’d spice the armour up a bit,” he lied. “But it was too much spice, so I scrubbed it off.”

“Son, ya don’t look good,” said Sarge with a frown. “And I ain’t just talkin’ about your face.”

Donut smiled. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

His ice blue eyes, which usually shone with cheer, were dull and almost lifeless. Sarge surveyed him for a moment before slipping off a gauntlet. Too engrossed in staring at his oatmeal and avoiding eye contact, Donut did not notice as Sarge reached over and set his fingers against the soulmark on the back of his neck.

Concern and warmth flooded through Donut. Though his soul positively hummed from the contact and his fingers instinctually twitched towards Sarge’s calf, Donut pulled away. “I’m, I’m not really in the mood,” he said, failing to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Grif lowered his food. Dark eyes regarding Donut seriously, he said, “What’s wrong?”

“Are you worried about Felix and Locus?” asked Simmons with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah,” lied Donut. “I guess it’s all just getting to me.”

“Ya know soul-bonding helps with that,” said Sarge pointedly.

They were staring at him, worry in their eyes, and Donut felt like his chest was going to cave in. “Not now,” he said. “Maybe later.”

There was a brief moment of silence before Sarge said, “You’re damn right we’ll do it later.”

A lump formed in Donut’s throat as he stared down at his tray. He was going to have to try and prolong ‘later’ for as long as possible.

…

The soul-connection between the Reds and Blues was rare and unique. Unlike most people, they _needed_ to soul-bond regularly. But when they were apart, they were able to go periods of time without soul-bonding so long as their soul-links were always open. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was tolerable and manageable.

Donut’s chest was aching with a phantom pain. His soul was throbbing, demanding to bond, but he managed to hold enough strength to resist. To avoid Sarge keeping his promise, Donut moved bunks, crashing with a young enthusiastic solider who was more than happy to share space with a famous Red. If Donut wasn’t drowning in despair, his earnest friendliness might have reminded him that not all people were like Ashford, Craver and Thompson.

He popped into the mess hall at random times to grab packets of food. He hollowly answered their desperate radio summons, short answers to assure them he was still alive and in the base. He stopped taking showers in the morning. He stopped taking showers at all. He could feel the grease in his hair and the oil on his skin. But he didn’t want to risk encountering Thompson and the rest in the corridor and he feared their next move would be to steal his armour while he was showering.

Stress consumed him. Ate him up from the inside. In his attempts to avoid his soulmates, to keep them from prying, he found himself alone whenever he unwittingly encountered Ashford, Thompson and Craver. They pushed him around, battered him back and forth, adding new bruises to his body which were thankfully hidden by his armour.

This particular day he had the misfortune of running into them in a corridor that happened to have a closet. As if they were of one mind, they manhandled him inside, mocking that it was time he get back in, and blocked the door. For hours he was trapped, curled up in ball and surrounded by cleaning chemicals and mops.

_The jocks trussed him up like a pig, tying his wrist and ankles together. They threw him into a shed on school property and laughed as they departed. It was a cold December night and by the time the custodian found him the next morning, his skin was tinged blue and his toes and fingers were numb. The doctors were amazed he hadn’t succumbed to hypothermia or lost any limbs._

Eventually a passing Federal Army solider discovered the unusual blockade and investigated. He freed Donut, who gave no explanation, and made tracks for the armoury, where he was more than late for his shift. He was unable to switch his shift, like he had done for his last three, and the thought of seeing Simmons, Grif and Lopez made him both want to cry with relief and shake with anxiety.

He missed Doc.

Longing churned through him as he thought of the medic. Doc would understand what he was going through. Doc wouldn’t judge. But Doc was currently who-knows-where, and in the chaos of war, and the immediate threat Felix and Locus posed, they didn’t have time to search for his location.

He reached the armoury, where he could see Grif and Simmons manning the counter. “Sorry,” he said dully as he neared. “I—”

Grif’s fist snapped out, cracking him upside the head. Donut crumbled to the floor with a startled yelp, his fingers gingerly reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“We’re freaking closed!” Grif barked at the bewildered soldiers waiting for their guns. “Get the hell out!”

There was a whir as the steel security window lowered, securing them in the armoury and keeping everyone else out. Solid hands grasped the sides of his helmet and yanked. Lifeless blue eyes and a tormented expression were revealed.

“You’re a selfish prick, you know that?” snarled Grif.

“Dex,” began Simmons, but Grif waved him down.

“No! Two weeks! Two weeks of this crap!” Grif was breathing raggedly, his shoulders heaving up and down. “You stopped eating with us. Stopped talking to us, and before I would have given anything for you to shut up but now I’d give anything for you to start rambling again! Wash and Sarge lost their damn minds when we told them you never showed up for your shift today. They’re tearing this complex apart looking for you. Why didn’t you answer your radio?”

Donut didn’t respond. His throat was dry. His soul felt like it was splintering. He had heard the frantic summons from his soulmates over their radio frequency. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to answer. He knew he would have sounded broken. How could he tell Wash and Sarge that he had been locked in a closet? That he had been unable to prevent it from happening?

 **“You’re really freaking me out,”** said Lopez, disturbed by how defeated and shattered Donut looked. **“Just talk to us.”**

“Damn it, Donut, what’s wrong?” asked Simmons desperately. “Just tell us! We’re in freaking agony.”

Donut knew they were. Because he was in agony, his soul screaming at him, throbbing, and he started to shake. “I…I…I _can’t._ ”

How could he? How could he tell them that he was just as much a wimp and a loser as he had been in high school? That nothing had changed. That he realized that he hadn’t changed, and probably never would.

He was weak. He’d always be weak.

He shot to his feet and ripped his helmet from Simmons’ gasp. He choked out, “I’m sorry,” with his eyes swimming with tears, before shoving on his helmet and sprinting out of the armoury.

His vison blackened near the edges. His breathing was loud and gasping. He could hear voices over the radio, them shouting his name, but the words were mostly static in his ears. His legs worked on autopilot, carrying him through the corridors, but he didn’t have a destination in mind. He just wanted to find somewhere safe to collapse.

He ran into something solid.

His head rattled from the force and he blinked. He had a second to register Washington’s armour before the Freelancer wrapped his arm around his waist and hefted him over his shoulder.

“W-Wash? What are you doing?”

Donut hated that his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. Washington ignored him and his voice was tight as he activated his radio. “Sarge? Yeah. I got him. We’ll meet you in your bunk.”

“I can walk,” ventured Donut.

“No,” said Wash shortly.

Donut knew what was coming and wasn’t sure if he was prepared to face it. His soul, however, was vibrating with desperate anticipation.

They entered the barracks and Wash slammed his fist against the metal door. It immediately slid open as Sarge granted them entry and Donut found himself dropped in a heap on the floor. Wash and Sarge removed their helmets, their faces contorted with pain and their eyes blazing with purpose.

“You have five seconds,” said Washington, his voice rumbling like thunder, “to take off your armour before we do it for you.”

“What about our rule?” asked Donut in a small voice.

“Damn our rule,” snarled Sarge.

It was an understanding amongst them that soul-bonding would not take place with someone who wasn’t in a mood to partake. Permission was needed, and it was this rule that had allowed Donut to escape soul-bonding for as long as he had.

But the rule had been created with the intention of one of them only needing a few days to themselves, not weeks, and Donut knew their souls were far past their limits. Their soul-connection was unique—they _needed_ each other, and in denying his soul contact with his soulmates, he was harming it, and theirs as well.

Grif was right. He was a selfish prick.

His entire body sagged as he relented, and though the fear clawed through his chest at what they would think of him, his need was stronger. The second he started pulling off his armour, Wash and Sarge shed theirs, and Donut didn’t have time to reach out before Sarge clasped his hand over the back of his neck.

Donut gasped as his soul wrenched with delight. It gave another powerful surge as Wash gripped his right forearm and his hands immediately moved, one settling over Sarge’s right calf and the other over Washington’s cheek.

Their concern overwhelmed him, consumed him, and Donut found that they weren’t angry with him—they were scared and worried about his declining emotional state, because putting up a barrier hadn’t fooled them in the slightest. It was only proof of just how badly he was feeling.

Donut’s fear crackled through their bond, his bitterness and his sadness churning like a whirlpool, rapidly swirling and out of control. His insecurities and all he had endured over the past couple of weeks were at the forefront of his soul. The homophobic slurs hissed at him in the corridors, the shoves and trips when no one was looking, the defacing of his locker and armour, the entrapment in the closet—

Rage cut through him, hot and fierce, and Wash’s arm tightened around Donut’s waist. _‘I’ll kill them. I’ll slit their damn throats.’_

 _‘I’ve got three bullets with their names on them,’_ thought Sarge murderously.

 _‘Why did you keep this from us?’_ thought Wash.

Their hurt flowed through him and that, coupled with the intensity of their bond that he had sorely missed and the knowledge of how much pain he had put them through, caused tears to spill over Donut’s cheeks.

_‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—’_

_‘We don’t want apologies, we want answers,’_ thought Sarge, and though his mental tone was sharp his hold was gentle, fingers stroking over the red handprint marking Donut’s neck.

 _‘We’re in a war,’_ thought Donut weakly. _‘It wasn’t important.’_

 _‘The hell it’s not!’_ snapped Wash.

_‘I should have been able to shrug it off. But I couldn’t.’_

_‘Of course ya couldn’t. They were harassing ya. Physically assaulting ya. Ya should have put a bullet in their miserable asses,’_ thought Sarge.

 _‘But I couldn’t,’_ repeated Donut in distress. _‘I’m not you guys. I’m weak.’_

 _‘You are not weak,’_ thought Wash passionately.

_‘I am. I couldn’t stand up for myself. I couldn’t do it in high school and I can’t do it now.’_

The traumatic high school memories shimmered to the surface. _‘No, that’s not on you,’_ growled Sarge. _‘You have nothing to be ashamed about.’_

 _‘You’re better than them, Franklin. Hell, you’re better than me,’_ thought Wash wryly. _‘Violence isn’t your go-to solution to conflict. It doesn’t make you weak. You’re not weak. You survived several experiences that should have ended in your death. You fought Tex, for crying out loud.’_

_‘But then why can’t I—'_

_‘Because you don’t respond to hate with hate. You wouldn’t try blowing them up with a grenade because they’re calling you horrible names. You_ are _the bigger person, Franklin.’_

 _‘Don’t listen to a dang word they say,’_ thought Sarge fiercely. _‘There’s nothin’ wrong with ya. You hear me?’_

Their love suddenly poured through Donut, dousing their anger, and Donut made a noise that was a cross of a whimper and a purr as he buried his head against Sarge’s shoulder. _‘I love you guys too. I’m sorry.’_

 _‘We know you are,’_ thought Wash softly. _‘We forgive you. But don’t ever do it again.’_

_‘I won’t. It was really hard not being able to get intimate with you guys.’_

Sarge gave a low chuckle, the return of Donut’s odd phrasing triggering a flare of relief. _‘Damn near killed me, havin’ you keep us blocked off.’_

 _‘Far more distracting than taking five minutes to beat those scum within an inch of their life,’_ thought Wash pointedly.

 _‘Right,’_ thought Donut sheepishly. _‘I was being stupid.’_

 _‘Very stupid, in thinking that we would think less of ya,’_ thought Sarge. He furrowed his brow and added seriously, _‘Ya know when we rag on ya, it ain’t because we mean it, right?’_

_‘I know. I don’t get upset, when it’s you. It’s different. You’re my soulmate.’_

_“And you’re ours,’_ thought Washington, lowering his chin to tuck against Donut’s blonde strands. _‘I meant it when I said you could talk to us about anything.’_

 _‘I know,’_ Donut repeated.

They fell into silence, tangled together on the floor, their souls humming from the contact that they had been denied for so long. After a while they slowly sat up, bodies relaxed and lethargic, and Donut rubbed at the tear stains on his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully, the light shining in his blue eyes once again. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologize again and you’ll be running double the laps in training tomorrow,” said Wash. “Lie to me again and you’ll be doing squats until your legs fall off.”

Donut flinched at his narrow-eyed glare, recalling the fib he had given when Wash had first asked him what was wrong. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Washington rested his forehead against Donut’s briefly before moving to snap his armour back into place. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a conversation I need to have with Thompson, Ashford and Craver.”

“Ya mean we’re havin’ a conversation,” said Sarge sharply.

“Of course, Sarge.”

“You don’t have—”

“I know,” cut in Wash calmly. “But we _want_ to.”

Donut knew by the set of their faces and the blazing of their eyes that there was nothing he could say to convince them otherwise. And he didn’t want to convince them, for it was about damn time some of his bullies got a taste of what they dished out.

He would have gone with them, but there was a tentative knock on the door and Wash, knowing who had been waiting patiently on the other side, opened it.

Grif, Simmons and Lopez filed in. Donut regarded them in surprise. “How did you—?”

“We radioed Wash when you ran off,” muttered Simmons. “Heard that he found you and were taking you here. We figured enough time had passed.”

**“Now it’s our turn, you stubborn sack of flesh.”**

Grif and Simmons removed their armour and soon the four were locked in a soul-bond. Though Donut was exhausted his soul sang and their soul scents washed over him, a mix of smells that was pleasant and soothing.

Sarge and Wash spared them a fond glance before stepping out of the room. Though they too were bone-tired from the intense soul-bond, the desire for revenge gave them the drive to search for Thompson, Ashford and Craver. They encountered Tucker and Caboose along the way and Caboose said earnestly, “Donut is feeling better!”

“Caboose,” spoke Wash sternly, shooting a glance at the collection of New Republic soldiers conversing at the end of the hall. “You know you gotta keep quiet about that in public right now, buddy.”

“Sorry,” said Caboose in a stage-whisper. “Can we do the thing?”

“Later. Grif, Simmons and Lopez are with him right now.”

“So what the hell was wrong with him?” asked Tucker, his voice neutral but his worry flowing through their soul-link.

“I think it’s best if you find out from Donut,” said Wash lightly. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Sarge and I have some business to attend to.”

They continued their search of the base, pausing every so often to ask groups of soldiers if they had seen the trio. Eventually they were successful and someone directed them to weapon maintenance.

Ashford, Thompson and Craver paused their work when Wash and Sarge entered the space. Broken guns were splayed across the counter and stashed on the shelves lining the walls, waiting to be fixed. “Agent Washington, Colonel Sarge,” said Thompson, quickly straightening his posture. “What can we do for you?”

“You can tell us why the hell you’ve been harassing Private Donut since he got here.”

Washington’s voice was hard and his frosty tone caused a chill to run deep through their spines. Craver fumbled for his words for a minute, managing to sound casual rather than terrified when he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know—”

Sarge’s shotgun went off, the noise deafening in the small space, and Craver screamed as he clasped his shoulder. “What the hell?” cried Ashford in fear. “What are you doing?!”

“One more time,” said Wash. “I suggest you think very carefully about what you’re going to say. The next bullet might go somewhere extremely unpleasant.”

“We were just messing around,” said Thompson, his voice shaking. “We didn’t mean anything by it. He just took it too seriously.”

“Why, I oughta,” snarled Sarge, but Wash put a steadying hand on the barrel of his gun, causing his trigger finger to keep still.

“Barricading him in a closet, barraging him with homophobic slurs and going out of your way to make his life hell is not ‘messing around’,” said Wash, his voice so calm it was terrifying. “It’s bullying. It’s harassment. It’s hateful. It’s disgusting and deplorable.”

“We’re sorry, okay?” said Thompson nervously. He shot a glance at Craver, who was still clutching his injured shoulder, whimpering in pain. “We’ll leave him alone.”

“You’re damn right you will,” said Wash darkly. “But first, I think you need a little… _lesson._ ”

He swiftly lifted his gun, a bullet striking Thompson’s right shoulder while Sarge’s second bullet caught Ashford’s arm. As they buckled from the pain, Wash strode forwards, seizing Thompson by the wrist and flipping him over the counter and to the floor. He slammed his foot into Thompson’s face, the muffled, broken scream causing his adrenaline to skyrocket.

Sarge grabbed Ashford and Craver by the necks, dragging them over to their fallen friend. He shoved them roughly to the ground and said, “I don’t know if ya heard, but Agent Washington here has anger issues.”

“ _Severe_ anger issues,” confirmed Wash.

And that carefully-constructed control over his anger, mastered over the years, slipped away, and Wash went wild.

For several minutes, there was only the sound of fists cracking against armour, of gun barrels whipping upside heads, crunching as bones broke and fractured, and agonized, terrified howls that eventually petered out into choked sobs.

When the HUDs informed Washington and Sarge that the three were near their limits, and that the blood gushing from their injuries was bordering on fatal, they stepped back, breathing heavily. “If you ever go near Donut, if you ever utter a syllable to him, what we do to you will be ten times worse than this,” snarled Wash.

“And it won’t just be the two of us,” promised Sarge with a growl.

They turned their backs on their gurgled cries and stepped into the corridor. Washington stopped a passing Federal Army solider and said, “Retrieve Dr. Grey. There are three soldiers in this room in need of urgent care.”

“Uh…okay,” he said in confusion.

As he activated his radio, Sarge and Washington walked by him and down the corridor. “I suppose we better tell Kimball what happened,” mused Sarge. “She’ll think we’re startin’ a mutiny for Doyle.”

Wash snorted. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

They knew that there was a very good chance that Kimball would be displeased with them taking matters into their own hands, especially when it was in regards to her own soldiers. But as Donut’s happiness swelled through their soul-links, and the relief of everyone else blanketing them, they didn’t give a damn about the consequences that might fall upon them.

…

“Geez,” said Doc with a frown, cuddled up against Donut on his bunk. “That really sucks. I’m sorry you had to go through that, buddy.”

“Ah, it’s okay,” said Donut, waving a hand. His body was lax with contentment from the soul-bond they had just shared, and Doc was still processing the torment Donut had experienced. “I still wish I didn’t let them get to me, but I’m only human. A human with needs.”

“And Kimball didn’t tell Wash and Sarge off?” asked Doc.

“Nope! She was furious with Ashford, Craver and Thompson. Said Wash and Sarge were completely within their rights, after they told her what the three had put me through. She put them permanently on front line duty. Thinks that maybe it’ll help them learn the value of life and how they want to live it.”

“They haven’t spoken to you again?”

Donut laughed. “No. They run in the opposite direction if they ever stumble across me.”

Doc set his hand against Donut’s shoulder and squeezed. “At least they were smart enough not to try and take revenge.”

“After what David and Sarge did to them, I hope they think before they try to bully someone else,” said Donut feelingly. “I do feel kinda bad for them. Kinda. Wash is terrifying and Sarge is a mean shot with his shotgun.”

“Carolina really reamed them out,” said Doc, grinning at the thought of the memory he witnessed in Donut’s soul.

“She was really mad that she couldn’t hurt them, ‘cause she was away when Wash and Sarge beat them off and no one was allowed to hurt them further.”

“Well, she certainly gave great detail on what she would do to them if they ever went near you.”

“Yeah.” Fondness swelled within him and Donut rested his head against Doc’s chest. “You know, I probably wouldn’t have gone so long keeping this all to myself if you had been here.”

Doc blinked in confusion. “Why?”

“I knew you’d understand what I was going through. And wouldn’t think less of me.”

Doc frowned. “They don’t think less of you either.”

“I know that,” assured Donut. “I just…didn’t really think it then. I know we’ve all experienced bullying. But it didn’t cross my mind. I was just so convinced that it was my fault, and that they’d be annoyed with me. Silly, right?”

“Insecurities are nasty,” said Doc feelingly. “They make us think we’re alone. But we’re not.”

Donut smiled, warmth flooding through him as he thought of his soulmates, the ones he loved most in the universe. “Definitely not.”

“Did Church really lock those three in their armour for five hours?”

“Oh yeah. I think it would have been longer if someone hadn’t found them.”

**Author's Note:**

> So if I were to create a one-shot collection based off this AU, with you guys being able to suggest prompts for me to play with, would that be something you'd be interested in?


End file.
